


Dragon Age Codex

by Current_Resident



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Epistolary, F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:35:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 8,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26199445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Current_Resident/pseuds/Current_Resident
Summary: Assembled notes and letters from a recent Inquisition expedition.
Relationships: Frederic of Serault/Minaeve, Lysette/Josephine Montilyet
Comments: 58
Kudos: 11
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	1. From the Journal of Researcher Minaeve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ritawheeler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ritawheeler/gifts).



From the Journal of Researcher Minaeve 

In hindsight, I should never have told the Inquisitor that I liked the outdoors. I clarified my statement, but the damage was done.

I had a relatively safe and absolutely perfect research position here. Any book I needed was mine for the asking in a matter of weeks. Every one of Empress Celene’s own magical advisors has quit her service to lend their knowledge to the Inquisition. I could just walk up and talk to them! Dennet of Redcliffe, who was proving to be nearly as knowledgeable on the topic of dracolisks as he is on horses, traded his considerable knowledge for fresh apples and help with the exotics now and then. Not only did I have every resource I could hope for to aid my research, but specimens and observations flooded in from all over Thedas for my study every day. The Inquisitor herself delivered samples and first hand reports to ME. My discoveries were helping Seeker Penteghast and the Inquisitor bring order out of this chaos. I might be a nameless Circle apprentice, but I was keeping Inquisition soldiers safe, informed, and well armed.

Well, in the morning I’m leaving that world behind to work in the field with an absent-minded Orlesian professor who twice mistook me for a servant and an earnest but inexperienced Templar recruit. I don’t know if I did my job too well or not well enough. 

When I first heard about my new assignment, I was excited. I’ll be working with the author of A Study of the Southern Draconids, himself! I’d probably still be excited if I hadn’t just met the man. 

Frederic of Serault is the kind of eccentric that would be called crazy in someone without wealth. He’s head to toe crimson and I mean that literally. He actually wears one of those ridiculous Orlesian masks that covers his entire head. In Skyhold, he stands out like a bright cardinal on a pine branch. Out in the wild, I imagine he’ll be trampled by an enraged Druffalo or shot by a dozen different Venatori marksmen inside the first week. He’s a giant red porcelain chin that chatters to himself constantly and has no idea what’s happening around him. The things that he chatters are quite intriguing, though. I think he was arguing with the author of the book he was reading while we waited to submit our requisitions to the quartermaster. If Baron Havard-Pierre D’Amortisan had actually been there to argue back, it would really have been something.

Our guardian on this trip is much quieter. I’d met Lysette several times in Haven. She appeared at the Chantry every evening as I was leaving, for vespers, I suppose. She has a trace of an Orlesian accent and the fancier Templar armor to go with it, but seems otherwise unafflicted with Orlesian frippery, possibly because of a youth spent in Denerim. I’m glad she’s coming with us. Between the explosion at the Conclave, the hostilities with rebel mages, and the slow poisoning of the Order with red lyrium, there are precious few Templars left this far south. I’m surprised the Inquisition could spare us even a recruit. A couple of scholars might not be missed with so many great minds flocking to the Inquisition banner, but we can ill afford to lose even one good Templar from the war effort.

I will sleep better tonight knowing she’ll be with us tomorrow.

The one I'll be happiest to see in the morning, though, is “Smiley”. The Inquisitor still hasn’t seen fit to name him, so my nickname stuck. Until we brought Smiley back from Hunter Shade I’d never seen a dracolisk. I didn’t expect the osteoderms to clash in coloration from the underlying epidermis. They don’t in most draconids. The effect is very striking, as are his intelligent yellow eyes. I’ve been working with him for weeks now and still every time I see him, I can’t believe he’s a real, live, creature until he moves. He’s still new to to the saddle. I don’t know if he’s ready for a trip like this. I don’t know if I am either. I guess we’re both as trained as we’re going to be. The Professor came to us on a Dracolisk and since horses don’t like to be around them, we’ll all be riding out on dracolisks instead. Master Pavus has offered his personal steed, a predominantly black basking longma, Solia, for our use and another recently taken from a Venatori camp will be carrying our equipment. Dennet’s horses will no doubt be relieved when we’ve removed all the predators from the stables.


	2. Unfinished Personal Letter on Parchment in a Steady Hand

Father,

I know I should have written sooner. In truth, I have, several times since the Conclave. Nothing makes it to a courier and I’m sorry. I hope you are well and far away from the madness tearing apart the world we knew.

I’ve left The Order. There. I’ve said it. The rest should be easy. 

The Templars were doing more harm than good. If you doubt it, visit the Hinterlands. The Blight was kinder to Ferelden than the Mage-Templar conflict. So much that was rebuilt has been destroyed and pillaged anew. When our leaders died at the Conclave and demons rained down from the Fade, it was the Inquisition that took a stand. They fought the demons back to the Fade while The Order turned from their purpose and fled. I owe my life to the Inquisition twice over, so I stand with them now. However it may appear, I did not leave The Order easily. Know that I can better keep the vows I made when I joined it by working with the Inquisition right now than I could among the sad remnants of the Templars. I have not given up the convictions that took me from Denerim. I have quit the company of those who did not share them. Should the Circles return and the Chantry allow the Templars to again take up the duties they have sadly forsworn, I will resume my place.

Ironically, now that I no longer consider myself a part of the Order, I have a mage in my charge. She’s the Inquisition’s head researcher, Minaeve. I’m leading her and Frederic, an expert on dragons from the University of Orlais, to a meeting with other experts studying recently slain dragons. The Elder One who murdered our Most Holy and destroyed Haven has in his power an Archdemon, or something very like one. Unless Weisshaupt decides to get involved, these scholars present the Inquisition’s best chance at understanding it, defending ourselves from it, and killing it. We can ill afford another Haven.

I do not know how long I will be gone but if you wish to reply, send your letters to Skyhold. I greatly wish to hear if you’ve had any word of Gerrard, Macsen, or Branwen. I would not ask you, but I can’t think of anyone else who might know that hasn’t been scattered on the winds of war. Please d


	3. From the Journal of Researcher Minaeve

We travelled no more than 10 miles from Skyhold before turning back. Professor Frederic of the University of Orlais, Thedas’s foremost authority on dragons and their kin, forgot his ink. And his field glasses. And his collection kit. And his tent. Half of his books, too, I think. We’ll try again tomorrow. 

I’m not angry. I think it’s my fault. I distracted him. While we were strapping our gear down, we got to talking. He’d noticed the resemblance between the Tal Vashoth mercenary captain’s horns and those of the Fereldan Frostback. So I mentioned the superstition I’ve heard some Qunari have that they have horns because they’re descended from dragons. The next thing I know we’re crossing the drawbridge riding out from Skyhold, still talking about dragon traits in mammals and mammal traits in dragons. Until the recent resurgence in the dragon population, no scholar had ever recorded an instance of hind-limb-specific preaxial polydactyly. But Frederic has personally observed five cases in the last year. We speculated on the possible causes until Lysette stopped us. We nearly took the wrong fork in the road. She says she speaks two languages and that’s two more than she has in common with either of us. In any case, it was shortly afterwards, when the professor tried to make a note on something we had discussed, that he recalled the bags he had neglected to take down from his room. 

He does get very carried away in his thoughts on draconology. It has been a long time since I’ve spoken with someone with deep knowledge of the subject with a corresponding deep passion for it. That mask, though, is very distracting in a conversation. 

I suppose that’s part of why Orlesians wear them. So much of communication relies on facial expressions, but masks force people to focus on the words being said. It’s vaguely disconcerting not being able to see someone’s eyes when they talk. It’s very hard to gage honesty, interest, intent, or humor when talking to a porcelain effigy. A lot of people dislike talking to the Tranquil and complain about their deadpan voices. When they stop and examine what really troubles them, most admit it’s their expressionless faces. Even a Tranquil face has tells more tells than a mask. At least I can see from their faces if they’ve slept or if they’re in poor health. And as far as I can tell, EVERYONE— emotions or not—engages in brief lateral eye movement when trying to recall a memory. Talking to a mask eliminates so much from a conversation. 

Fortunately, the Professor is an open book. It’s about dragons. 

I can hear a difference in his voice sometimes. It’s there when he’s talking about dragons and theories, but absent when he mentions his University. It’s because when lips curl into a smile, they subtly change the sound of the words they form. I wonder what that looks like.

I do hope they placed the proper glyphs of preservation on the dragon remains, or by the time we arrive, they will be foul and likely half consumed by scavengers.


	4. On a Dirty, Crumpled Sheet of Watermarked Linen Paper Written in an Educated Hand-

Professor Frederic,

I regret to inform you that a board of inquiry has convened to look into the unfortunate events that occurred on your recent expedition to the Western Approach. You recall the University had been initially reluctant to fund any off-site research amid the scattered and unpredictable violence of both the Mage-Templar Conflict and the Civil War. Your proposal assured us that the Abyssal High Dragon’s habitat, being barren, remote, and of little practical value, was safer than Val Royeaux given recent events. Now seven students, scions of influential families all, are dead, to say nothing of the loss of supplies and equipment, without so much as a single specimen being sent back for study. Someone must answer for this. Effective immediately, you have been suspended pending the findings of the board. You are required to return all books and equipment belonging to the University until your reinstatement, should that occur. In light of your pending work for our staunch supporters in the Inquisition, no one has asked that you return at this time, though I hope any discoveries made are promptly shared with the University for the betterment of all.

When the board reaches its decision, I will send word to Skyhold.

It should go without saying that your request to borrow the University’s copy of Vespasian’s Dragons and Other Common Extinct Beasts has been denied. Though, I’ve no doubt I will hear from you again on the subject.

Take care of yourself, Frederic. May your current project fare better than your last.

Yours in hope,

Jurgen Haulis, Chancellor   
University of Orlais


	5. From the Journal of Researcher Minaeve

The ride from Skyhold has been lovely. Abundant wildlife suggests no nearby rift activity, just as the scouts promised. Today alone, I’ve seen several fennecs, a song thrush, a sky full of starlings, and a shocking number of melanistic squirrels. I wonder if the change in coloration has something to do with the recent Blight in the region. Other than the solid black coloration, they seem no different, physically or behaviorally, from any other Fereldan Tufted Red Squirrels, so I don’t think it’s a new species. It’s something I’ll have to mention to Hellisma back at Skyhold.

It’s been too long since I’ve ridden this much and it does more than just make me sore. Every few miles, something— bird song, a statue, the sound of a wagon we passed on the road—conjures half remembered journeys with my family. I haven’t seen or heard anything of them since I was a small child. The names and faces are fuzzy at best. Mostly, I remember a song we sang as we travelled and not even the words. I recall only the tune, the harmony of elvish voices, and the sound of hoofbeats keeping time. It’s been haunting me since we left the snow of the Frostbacks to follow this forest road.

Lysette and Solia are not getting along. I try to pass on what I’ve learned from Master Dennet, for what it’s worth. The beast is simply full of sass. The Professor says she wants to hunt, not carry people around on her back. Her master probably indulges her too much and the squirrels are not helping. If Lysette doesn’t ride between the Professor and I, Solia bolts after anything small that moves or else she snaps at our birds. It’s a testament to Lysette’s determination that she hasn’t been thrown. We’ve taken a rest for lunch. I hope the beast mellows after she has eaten. Nox, the old sharp tail hauling our gear and the cage, hisses every time Solia’s about to get frisky. I suppose he’s more tattletale than sharp tail. The warnings have been invaluable, that is, assuming he’s not just pointing out squirrels for her to chase. 

The Professor seems to enjoy Solia’s chaotic rampages. Every time we stop, he fills a scroll with observations about the social dynamics of the newly created group and her effect on them. When we speak at all, he and I have talked of little else since leaving Skyhold. It’s rare to find so many dracolisks together outside of Tevinter. I’ve been fortunate to observe Nox, Smiley, and Solia since each came into the Inquisition’s care. The inclusion of a fourth (Soohry? Not sure how to spell the name, but that’s how it sounds to my ear. It’s probably one of those Orlesian words with ten unpronounced letters tacked on to the end.) has definitely caused some tension. 

The Professor has actually been to Tevinter. He spent a month with a cavalry regiment that employed longmas exclusively, so he’s well aware of their quirks and how to control them. He should have traded mounts with Lysette before now, but she’s determined, he’s curious, and I can only suggest it so many times. Well, once. Working with the Tranquil, I never have to make a sound suggestion more than once. I suppose I’m spoiled now.

We should reach West Hill by nightfall. Squirrells and dracolisks are just the warm up. Our real work can begin in the morning. I hope I can sleep. 

It’s funny. Back in the Circle, I tried for two years to get permission to audit the Professor’s lecture series on draconid anatomy at the University. I was always denied because I hadn’t yet passed my Harrowing and they couldn’t spare the Templar. Tomorrow, I suppose I will be assisting the Professor in a practical demonstration along with dragon researchers from across Thedas. What would the First Enchanter say?


	6. Excerpt of Frederic of Serault’s Personal Notes, Scroll 3

Day 15

Dragons are resistant to the Blight! One would think otherwise given the existence of Archdemons, but now we have discovered irrefutable proof within the body of the second largest Abyssal High Dragon on record and others, all brought together thanks to the Inquisition.

Jeannette noticed while preparing an anatomical drawing of the Abyssal’s head that the right subocular and upper labial shields were raised and separated quite unnaturally. The Baron assumed that it was merely damage caused by the bloody, violent end she met at the hands of the Inquisitor. There had been a lot of damage done to the body, it’s true. But any other fool could see that this was not the case here. During the dissection, Sister Brigette excised a cyst that had grown beneath those misshapen scales, right below the dragon’s eye! Within the cyst we found blighted tissue. The dragon’s body was able to isolate its own tainted flesh to halt the spread of the Blight!

Naturally, we turned to the other specimens to see if more dragons shared the Abyssal’s remarkable gift. Only one available to us at the site, a Ferelden Frostback, had a similar Blight-filled cyst. However, by the time we finished our thorough examinations, the ghoulish Fereldan with the impressive mustache was back. He’s been circling our proceedings like a carrion-bird since the specimens arrived. I thought our Templar had shoo’d him away for good this morning, but I am grateful that she did not. The smirking rogue had with him a barrel full of rum-soaked dragon cysts ranging in size from thimble to cabbage, some taken from the first dragon that had the misfortune to meet the Inquisitor. Apparently, they were the only parts of the beast for which he couldn’t fathom a use.

I suppose there’s no harm in letting him have a few bones and scales for his work when ours is done. He claims he was in Denerim during the Blight and saw Urthemiel first hand. Perhaps I should ask Jeannette if she’d like to interview him. No, I should do it. She should keep at the drawings. She has a real talent for it. I confess, in my great enthusiasm, I lack the patience to complete more than one at a time with such exacting detail. ~~But Jeannet~~

NOT Jeannette. Jeannette is dead.


	7. From the Journal of Researcher Minaeve

He knows the average bite radius of a Hunterhorn Shrike. He can tell you the common incubation times for wyvern clutches north and south of the Vimmarks. I believe I’ve heard him quote every word ever written by Ferdinand Pentaghast on the subject of dragon hunting. Yet, ask him where he put down the saw he was using a moment ago and he draws a blank. If anyone asks him what my name is, he’ll guess wrong every time.

How can someone know so much about draconids and nothing about ANYTHING else? There must be only so much room in a human brain and his is filled to capacity with encyclopedic knowledge of creatures. 

It shouldn’t bother me. It doesn’t really. I don’t know who “Jeannette” is, but she is probably not a servant. That’s a step in the right direction. I think. At least it’s a name and not “Templar,” which is what he calls Lysette. But now everyone- Sister Brigette, Baron D’Amortisan, Wade, Bann Corwin-everyone apart from Lysette- keeps calling me “Jeanette”. In academic circles I suppose I am forever Jeanette now. I could correct everyone, but that would only make him look foolish and he doesn’t need my help. He went to dinner in the same blood-stained clothes he wore to dissect the Frostback. He was too hungry and excited to talk about our findings to spare a thought for anything else. Everyone should be grateful he washed his hands.

There’s no point in dwelling on any of this. It hardly matters what anyone calls me. Outside of the Circle, I’m just an elf, and an apostate elf at that. My findings carry only the weight that the Inquisition lends them, as I have been recently reminded. I shouldn’t even be here. I’m very lucky to have had the opportunity to examine the dragons up close.


	8. Unrolled Remains of Burned Letter Baron Havard-Pierre D’Amortisan Had Been Using to Light His Pipe

…No, she doesn’t have University or Chantry credentials. She didn’t spend a season attending lectures in Val Royeaux for a Chancellor’s autograph, nor does she reject any science that can be refuted by an old song. She spent her whole life in a closed society full of experts, teachers, and the finest libraries in the world where the only thing encouraged or expected of her is that she LEARN. Perhaps if you had the benefit of a life of such study beyond worldly concerns, you too could tell the difference between a wound and a cyst…


	9. Note Found on an Ornate Scroll Case Decorated in a Red Lion Motif-

You’re nobody in academia until someone tries to steal your work. Congratulations! 

These exquisite drawings are the first detailed anatomical studies ever done of the Abyssal High Dragon. Their value to the field of draconology cannot be overstated. They may be the only glimpse future scholars ever see of this rarest of dragons. They belong to you, not the Chantry scholar who did the cutting, the blustering nobleman who made (dubious) notes, the learned host who allowed us to conduct our research within his hold’s walls, nor even the Inquisition which provided the specimens and bade us study them. When you release these, they will be attributed to you and no other. 

Let me know if any remain missing. I will do whatever must be done to recover them.

(Note is signed with a single large “F” and an emphatic flourish.)


	10. A Worn, Folded Parchment...

A worn, folded parchment contains a long string of blocky characters without spaces. The letters spell out nothing and are crowded by crossed out attempts in another hand written in charcoal to arrange the first 13 letters into a word. Two 13 by 13 grids drawn in charcoal fill the bottom of the page. The first lays out all the letters of the message in the order they originally appear. The second re-arranges the columns of the first under the unscrambled first 13 letters of the message as follows.

U N P R E D I C T A B L Y   
L Y S E T T E P R O C E E  
D A T O N C E T O I N Q U  
I S I T I O N C A M P N A  
H A S H I N M A R S H E S  
T A K E M I N A E V E A N  
D A N Y S C H O L A R W H  
O W I S H E S T O S T U D  
Y L I V E D R A G O N R E  
G I O N U N S T A B L E D  
R A G O N H U N T E R S O  
N T H E W A Y R E S U P P  
L Y A T P O I N T L U C K


	11. Excerpt of Frederic of Serault’s Personal Notes, Scroll 9

Day 20. Maybe. Friday?

It seems the nearer we come to our mysterious new destination, the more difficulties we find. We ran afoul of some organized bandits calling themselves “Freemen.” They killed our contact and made off with our supplies. Some were still looting when we came to the ironically nicknamed “Point Luck.” Though they had a slight numerical advantage over us, the base fellows were spooked by the fearsome appearance of our mounts. Our Templar dispatched those that didn’t flee. Solia and I helped a little. 

After the fighting stopped, I again saw Minaeve work her magic as she did back in West Hill. She says it isn’t magic at all, but what other explanation can there be? She can look at a person and know they are lying. Sometimes, she can discern even more. 

There were two bound prisoners. As they were questioned, she watched. She has very piercing eyes. One refused to say anything. One prisoner, I mean, not one eye. Goodness! The other PRISONER probably never had a thought he didn’t sing out. Minaeve stayed quiet at first as we tried to get an idea how many Freemen were about and where they might have taken our supplies. The chatty one contradicted himself a lot, so even without magic, I knew he was lying about something. I thought we were getting nowhere. Then, she got up and pronounced that there were roughly ten people squatting in an abandoned mine to the north, where they’d likely taken our supplies. Once the prisoners got over their shock, they wanted to kill each other. I only wanted to understand what I’d witnessed and test to see it it was true.

It seems whenever the chatty prisoner’s rambling lies got anywhere close to the truth, something flashed on the quiet one’s face that helped Minaeve confirm it. I was watching the same faces she was and discerned no meaning. If it’s not magic, I plainly need to stick to observing dragons. Humans are very complicated. 

There truly was an abandoned mine to the north. I found a game trail that went practically right to the entrance. Though I was curious to see if there really were ten people living in it, I restrained myself. I might handle one or two miscreants, especially if I had a hungry dracolisque to assist. Ten is quite beyond me, I’m sad to say. 

Strangely, my companions seemed very cross that I found the mine. We need to obtain the rations. I can only eat so much squirrel.


	12. Journal Entry of Researcher Minaeve

Coming up with 13 letter words with no repeated letters to use for a cypher has become a game as we ride. It almost keeps our minds off the fact that we’re in the middle of nowhere with dwindling supplies. We only have three ravens to send back to Skyhold, but I believe we have about ten messages worth of code words. The Professor is very good at the game. He gave us three good ones in quick succession- ‘uncopyrighted’, ‘unmaledictory’, and ‘documentarily.’ I look at him and all I can come up with is ‘troublemaking.’

We had a lead on where our supplies went and he just wandered off after it on his own without a word, even knowing he was headed straight for a nest of bandits. We were hoping to find out from our prisoners if the bandits had regular patrols or lookouts before coming up with a plan. If there were lookouts, they should be sacked because they didn’t see the great flaming red harlequin sneaking up on them. The fact that he should have been killed doesn’t even cross his mind. I think about that fact rather more than I should.

Smart people can be so terribly stupid. Fortunately, so can brigands. We knew from the way the professor was still walking around without a lot of arrows sticking out of him that there probably weren’t any lookouts to speak of. We didn’t make the same mistake. Lysette kept watch and took out a returning hunter while we turned the land against them. I’m no good in a fight, but if I have time to prepare, my glyphs are very effective. The Professor has a flare for lures and traps. The prisoners were a passable lure for the brigands, but whatever he used to draw the angry bear was surprisingly effective. 

It took some doing. Ultimately, the three of us left with our goods, leaving behind a forest of brigands paralyzed, snared, stabbed, stuck, scattered, and chewed. If nothing else, I expect we’ve inspired them to seek respectable employment.

I hate to admit this. It was fun.


	13. On a Small, Curling Strip of Parchment That Looks as if it Had Been Tightly Rolled Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: If you really don't want to solve this yourself, I will add the answer to the comments when they open. Suffice it to say, it is a report sent back to Skyhold.

BGOMERNTILKAUVUEADWOTSESYLDIOTSHTTAENIFUOFADNDONNABOANDEPEENDMIVCRAOTDELCPEMEFSCMVISDRESREAAISOFYTRALMRTARSTENNOEVKAHMETALDFEEPDREIOOOTTTCSNUCRRLLMUYPDPIUSYEEONEGRYOSMDN


	14. Journal Entry of Researcher Minaeve

I was at Haven when they made themselves known. More sensible then, I ran. I have studied their weapons, their broken vials, fragments of crystal snapped from their corpses, and endless eyewitness accounts. Until now, though, I’ve never actually observed a living Red Templar. 

It’s horrifying. 

If I didn’t know this used to be a human, I’d never have guessed. Might be better not to know. It might not hurt to watch it move if I didn’t know there was a man’s heart beating somewhere within what seems a mass of chewed meat studded with shards of Serault glass. In fact, I can’t tell for certain if this was a man or a woman before the blighted lyrium changed it. It might be someone I used to know. 

It’s eyes are still human. They’re blue and I hate to look at them. I don’t believe it can speak. It hasn’t since we captured it. It’s remaining intellect is up for debate. It’s hands are red crystal spikes—no dexterous limbs remain to it. When it came into our camp, it smashed Lysette’s lyrium kit. I’m not certain if it meant to destroy it or make use of it. Without proper hands, it lacks the means of taking lyrium—or even food— on its own. Without words, it can’t tell us. 

I have never hated the Templars. I still don’t. Even so, I must kill this one. To do otherwise would be cruel. So what if it is somewhat tame? What kind of life can it have now? It can do nothing but creep and kill. It couldn’t manage that much if there was a doorknob in the way. 

Hellisma should have been sent in my stead. I’m sure I’m missing something because I can’t decide whether to be sick before or after I euthanize this misbegotten creature. 

Before.


	15. Excerpt of Frederic of Serault’s Personal Notes, Scroll 9

Day 30

I can only assume an awful lot went on in the world while I was researching in the Western Approach. The creature that invaded our camp is something called a “Red Templar.” Red Templars are an altogether different sort from our dear protector. There has been a schism within the Templar order and some have begun taking tainted lyrium that over time, warps their bodies and perhaps even their minds.

Ours is about 6 feet tall from toes to the top of the tallest red crystal point jutting out from his back. Much of his body has been subsumed by rigid crystal, yet he still manages to move. His hands are gone and in their place are razor sharp scythes of red lyrium. What flesh remains to him has grown wild around and through broken bits of his armor much like untended ivy engulfing an old wooden building. It has the pink color of a mild sunburn, growing redder where it gives way to crystal. His name is Eric.

My companions have been at loggerheads over what to do about the brute, which has slowed our progress. Tonight, they’ve come to terms.

When he would not fight, our Templar would not kill him. It wouldn’t be sporting. It seems he came into our camp seeking pure lyrium, not confrontation. I think destroying the lyrium kit was an accident. The brute hasn’t much dexterity, nor impulse control. Why else would he remain docile? We can obtain more lyrium. I hardly think he could seek out a Chantry dispensary in his present state. Perhaps he imagines pure lyrium can undo the ravages of red lyrium, or perhaps he just retains the memory of needing it in another life. He can’t tell us. His lower jaw is frozen in place, no longer bone and tissue, but a solid piece of red crystal. He can’t form words. He can barely swallow tea. In fact, I don’t even think he needs to. I understand the golems of the dwarves need no sustenance and they also move despite being made of rigid stone. Perhaps they were created by a similar process somehow. A living being of flesh transmuted into cold stone or hot crystal? I have to say it’s possible, though I’d not have believed it before now.

Minaeve has largely avoided Eric. He makes her uncomfortable. I keep a distance as well. Even when it’s my turn to watch him, I stay well away. Something warm and unsettling radiates off his crystal form. It’s like one of mother’s more adventurous recipes, served piping hot except it’s not a smell that turns my stomach. It doesn’t seem to bother our templar at all. I think she’s always watching him, even when it’s not her turn. If she didn’t the brute would be dead now, and he would have died without a name.

The arguing woke me. It had been Minaeve’s turn to keep watch. She brought a stiletto instead of her staff. For his part, the inhuman brute lashed to the tree seemed unconcerned whether the elf plunged it into his eye to end his life or if the templar stopped her. They went back and forth loudly for several minutes until Minaeve asked what kind of life “It” could possibly have as twisted as it was. The Templar reminded her that some people said the same of the Tranquil. That quite took the wind out of Minaeve's sails. Before she recovered, our protector directed Minaeve’s attention to a spot on the ground between the roots of the tree we’d tied him to where he had tried to scratch his name in the earth. 

This is the first sign we’ve had that the Red Templar retains human level intellect and is not merely a mindless monster.

The stiletto is still laying in the dirt. I don’t think my friend will be up for chatting in the morning.


	16. From a Small, Curled Parchment Written in a Shaky Hand

Ambassador Montilyet,

I haven’t told the others, but it’s now been 6 days since I used the last of my lyrium. I had no idea this would come upon me so quickly. ~~I haven’t taken it for so long to be so~~ I pray my last message was received and a fresh supply waits at our destination. 

I believe I would have joined the Inquisition even if we had not spoken at length on the subject in the Chantry at Haven. You do not need me to tell you how persuasive you can be. What I need to tell you is that it is the hope of speaking to you but once more that steadies my hand enough to write. On my honor, I will safely see the scholars to the forward camp, lyrium or no lyrium. If I can go no further and we do not meet again until we stand at the Maker’s side, I hope that in the presence of His strength I may lay down the burden that is in my heart.

Ever your servant,

Lysette


	17. Excerpt of Frederic of Serault’s Personal Notes, Scroll 10

Day ~~34 35~~ 30?

It’s been a most exciting day.

I discovered the first dragon signs soon after we set out this morning. The unmistakable acidic scat of the Stonejaw is a smell one does not soon forget. It is also not something one encounters in the Circle. When the beast made its magnificent presence known, my colleague misidentified it as an Abyssal High Dragon.

It was an easy mistake to make. Visually, the two species are nearly indistinguishable at a distance. Once it swooped closer, it was possible to make out the lack of the Abyssal’s bright green flashes on the wings and ventral scales as well as the highly developed grasping claws, not unlike hands, which are only present on the Stonejaw. It is, however, difficult to do these things when fleeing. Our Templar wisely insisted we move our disagreement to the safety of a nearby ruin. We did so as fast as our mounts could carry us. Sadly, I am certain it was the mounts that were causing the beast to attack.

When nesting, a Stonejaw will not allow other dragons, not even its own mate, near the eggs. I now believe the scat had marked the periphery of the Stonejaw’s territory. If we had ventured any farther before taking our sleep last night, I dare say she would have slain the dracolisques and possibly attacked us as well as we rested. It is very late in the season for a Stonejaw to nest, but certainly not impossible. Given the extreme aggression and her determination not to leave us, I can assume no other cause than protection of the nest. It is possible something more than our hapless straying into her territory has happened to set her off.

We took refuge in an Elvish ruin, or possibly a Tevinter one. I must confess that one crumbling, sunken stone temple looks very much like another to me. In our flight, we became separated from our protector and the Red Templar.

Minaeve was able to light some braziers to illuminate our saving prison. A large round room, with stone benches laid out in a semi-circle, it didn’t seem to contain any exit apart from the way we entered. As that way was generally stuffed with a snuffling dragon snout or reaching claw, it was not a viable escape. My colleague had to concede, on seeing those great, grasping almost-hands with scutes the color of sand faintly sprinkled with rust that this was not an Abyssal High Dragon at all. The Abyssal is more ruddy, with light green flashes so bright they almost glow. The way the beast grabbed and pulled at the stone doorway, I would not be surprised to find one capable of using tools, perhaps uprooting a tree to use as a club. There was a definite opposable thumb present. It made me recall one of our earliest conversations back in Skyhold about mammal traits present in dragons.

It was a powerful moment for me to be standing in the presence of a living dragon, safely out of reach but still able to see the way the muscles moved with life in them. I recall feeling very much at peace and knowing with certainty that there was no place else I wanted to be than in that moment, with Minaeve at my side contemplating the Stonejaw. The claw withdrew and the snout returned, nostril furiously sniffing after us. I watched, transfixed, as the beast’s scream of frustration changed into a jet of flame that flowed harmlessly around a transparent dome in front of me while my friend tried to push me back from it. I didn’t even feel the heat, but the sweat on Minaeve’s brow told me we would feel the next one. I allowed myself to be pushed and dragged and a little bit nagged away from the path of the flames up against the wall.

The dracolisques screamed their challenges right back at her, unconcerned by the possibility that her claw could effortlessly rip each of them in half. Every dracolisque is the mightiest dragon in their own mind. We had to tie them to keep them from charging the door. Their fighting spirit is what makes them the preferred mount of Tevinter cavalry.

I never noticed this before and I wanted to make a note. Elves have very long toes. Specifically, the middle and distal phalanx of the second to fifth toes seem markedly longer. It may be an illusion. I think perhaps the phalanx bones are closer in length to one another and it merely makes the toes seem longer. Her calves are interesting too, for an altogether different reason. Minaeve shed her boots to better climb the crumbling walls to one of the many small round windows that ringed the domed ceiling. I could think of nothing better to do than to watch in case she fell.

The Stonejaw shook the place. Dust rained down. I tried to persuade my friend that conditions were not favorable for the escape she was attempting, but she had to fall a couple times to believe me. Fortunately, she was not badly hurt. She never fell far and I would not let her hit the cold stone. She swears there was a time she could climb like a spider. Too long in a Circle might have atrophied that particular skill.

The dragon’s tantrum continued raining dust and small debris on us. But after bisecting the room with fire twice more, something else took her attention—the Inquisition’s promised dragon hunters! We made it close enough to the camp that they couldn’t ignore a dragon dropping out of the sky nearby. Neither could our Templars. Eric fought as a true knight, thoroughly confusing everyone, from the look of it. The Stonejaw was absolutely awe-inspiring. Minaeve and I watched the whole thing from the doorway of the temple. You wouldn’t think something so massive would be so quick or light on it’s feet, but this beast leapt sideways like a kitten to avoid that dragon-horned Tal-Vashoth’s axe. She was hopelessly outnumbered by relentless little people, but she died well.


	18. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The principal characters finally interact. GASP!

By the time the dracolisks’ claws first scratched the bridge into Skyhold, no one had spoken for at least a mile. They rode at a slow pace three abreast, Lysette no longer in the middle, but on the left on Sourit rather than Solia. Minaeve patted Smiley’s neck and he made a low trilling sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat that she felt as much as heard. She was the first to break their silence.

“After all this excitement, I expect you’ll be glad to get back to the University now.” 

“Oh, not at all.” Frederic chuckled. “I wish to continue working with you indefinitely.”

“The Inquisition can always use more help. Submit a proposal. I’m sure Ambassador Montilyet could find the gold for any project with your name attached, assuming there isn’t already something needs doing from the war council.”

“What about your next project? I would prefer to work with you. You’re a delight.”

“I can’t tell if you’re smiling because you’re joking or because you’re cr…eccentric.”

“But you can tell I’m smiling. Incredible.” 

Lysette and Sourit stopped in the middle of the drawbridge. The others followed suit. Sourit stretched out his long brown, anthracite-studded, neck and shook his head.

“This is good bye for now.” She said, extending a hand to Minaeve, who was closest. “There’s something I have to do.”

“I hope it’s explain the the stable master why we’re returning a dracolisk short.” Frederic sighed. “I am not looking forward to that conversation.”

Without a rider to control him, the oldest of their drakolisks had turned and fought a dragon, with predictable results. Nox’s brief harassment of the Stonejaw had given the others a chance to escape. It had also left supplies and equipment scattered across the marshland.

Minaeve clasped the offered hand briefly.

“Good luck,” she said, “And thank you.”

“You as well.” She smiled, nodded at Frederic, then brought the big lizard to a very equine canter. If nothing else, the journey had made the Templar a better rider. She’d even come to accept the dracolisks’ toothy faces without suppressing a shudder.

Then there were only two riders idling on the bridge over the ponderous drop that nearly surrounded Skyhold.

Frederic urged his borrowed mount closer to the edge so he could look down. He whistled appreciatively.

“If you fell, I do believe you’d celebrate a birthday or two before hitting the bottom. I can’t even see it.”

Minaeve frowned.

“Professor…”

“Please. It’s Frederic. You don’t stay a professor when you allow your most promising students to be murdered while you’re happily scribbling notes on varghests.”

“I’m sorry. I had no idea. So, Jeanette?”

Frederic nodded. 

“And Marcus. And Thierry. And Grant. And Mabon. And Adrienne. And Pippin. Any one of them the equal of any two D’Amortisans, I assure you. Excellent students.”

He didn’t face her as he named the lost. He returned his attention to the long icy drop, an updraft tossing the shaggy grey fur lining the heavy cloak he’d bundled in for the long ride up the mountain. With his gaze following the path of a hawk flying below, he didn’t see her hand close around his mount’s rein. Solia’s teeth clicked together several times quickly, but she didn’t bother to snap at her. Minaeve assumed the pampered pet was merely a little agitated by the presence of a hand so near her face that hadn’t the decency to offer her a fresh squirrel. 

“You know, I noticed the port was gone before I noticed they were. Even then, I never considered the possibility that they might have come to a bad end until the Inquisitor told me she found them. I was so busy with my work. I didn’t even look for them.”

Minaeve clicked her tongue twice. Smiley obediently responded at once while Solia only reluctantly deigned to allow herself to be slowly lead away from the edge. Frederic stopped contemplating the abyss long enough to see what was happening.

“Ah, you needn’t worry about me, my friend. I’ve made my peace. It will never happen again. Students, even good ones, are but an unfortunate side effect of begging a University for research funding. The Inquisition doesn’t force students upon me. It allows me to work with the greatest minds in my field. And so long as the two of us are working together, I could never lose track of you. I’d just follow the sound of singing.”

“I don’t sing.” Minaeve said flatly. They stopped, but she did not let go of Solia’s reins.

“Humming then. You always hum when you ride. I don’t recognize the tune, but it’s pretty.”

Minaeve’s cheeks made a good attempt at approximating the shade of Frederic’s mask.

“I didn’t know you could hear that over the birds and everything. I’ll just be throwing myself off the bridge, then.”

“Sing that lovely song for me first, won’t you?”

The mask was looking at her. She had no idea if the man was serious.

“NO! No. I don’t even know the words. Anyway, I’m not about to stand in front of Skyhold singing. People will think I’ve gone mad. It’s not done. You have absolutely no idea about anything in the world around you but draconids. Do you?”

“Draconids and you, Minaeve. Otherwise, I must admit that’s an accurate statement.”

The conversion from Circle Tower pale to Serault crimson was complete and crept down the elf’s neck. She shook her head.

“Horsefeathers.”  
“It’s true. I was trapped by a magnificent rampaging Stonejaw. Did I make notes about it’s dentition and claws? Or did I follow where you lead and spot you when you attempted to climb to safety?”

“You almost died!” 

“Yes, but after that.”

“This is foolishness. Give me your mask.”

“What?”

“Come on, now. Give it here.”

“I…Alright. I hope you’re not expecting much.”

“I expect to see truth. Nothing else matters.”

Minaeve only released Solia’s reins to accept the wall that had hidden the Professor from her perception from the day they met. She looked at the silly mask in her hands, the light through the eye slits, before looking up and seeing Frederic for the first time.

The mask was in no way inspired by his true face. He had a good, strong chin, not narrow and pointy. His nose was, though, and together with his brown eyes being close together and the touch of grey at his temples it would have given him a shrewd, calculating look if it wasn’t all thrown off by a sheepish grin on his full lips and three old parallel scars on his left cheek that stretched back to his ear, some of which was missing. She’d seen a similar pattern on the belly of the Stonejaw when they’d examined it. It had been a parting gift from Nox.

He sat up very straight in his saddle as she studied him with the cold, vaguely unsettling scrutiny of a scientist. She didn’t miss the momentary dilation of his pupils under her appraisal, or anything else. 

"Dracolisk?" she asked, her eyes lingering on the scars before meeting his own.

He nodded. "They can forget their training when they're wounded. And it seems I can forget my training when they're wounded, too."

The scars were no distraction from the tiny expressions that animated his face, telling a careful observer more than mere words ever could. There was only one question Minaeve wanted them to answer.

“Do you truly have any regard for me? Or, do you simply like having someone follow you around to pick up the things you put down and hand them back when you need them so you don’t lose them?”

He chose his answer carefully, though he suspected his words didn’t matter in the slightest.

“I am quite accustomed to losing things, I assure you. The only thing in this world that I would be aggrieved to lose is you.”

She let him stew for a moment in silence. Then she nodded.

“Alright, then.”

His mask tumbled over the side of the bridge to suffer a two birthday drop into oblivion.

“That was my favorite!” Frederic protested.

“I need to see your face. I need some warning before the next time you hare off chasing bandits or decide to take a face full of dragon fire.”

“Would a face full of dragon fire be an improvement?”

"I wouldn't change a thing."

She clicked her tongue again, goading Smiley into action and the scholars rode into Skyhold together.


End file.
